


Burning

by whiteduck6



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Burns, Gen, Good Parent Hank Anderson, Hank Anderson & Connor Parent-Child Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Whump, like seriously this is real mean to connor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-14
Updated: 2019-01-14
Packaged: 2019-10-10 00:42:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17415695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiteduck6/pseuds/whiteduck6
Summary: “Wait,” he says, grabbing Connor’s wrist. “What’s that?”“What’s what?” Connor asks. He feels a cold needle drag down his spine.“On your hand,” Hank says. “Looks like a burn.”“Anti-android protestor,” Connor says, somehow managing to get the lie out convincingly.Gavin has taken to burning Connor.





	Burning

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [take it, don't break it](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14910032) by [carefulren](https://archiveofourown.org/users/carefulren/pseuds/carefulren). 



> hi! just be warned there are some somewhat graphic descriptions of violence, including burns, so if that kind of stuff bothers you this might not be the fic for you! please keep yourselves safe and read responsibly : )

The first time it happens, Hank is out sick. 

He insisted Connor come into work anyway, saying “ _I don’t need you to take care of me, you’re not my fuckin’ mother,_ ” in a gruff tone before pulling the comforter back up over his head in an effort to block out the sun.

Connor had pulled the heavy curtains shut, left the door open a crack behind him in case Sumo wanted in, and left.

He was pulled out of the complicated web of the DPD computer system by a harsh slap to his cheek.

He jerks his hand away from the computer, blinking a few times to clear his vision. Reed is in front of him, a lit cigarette between his fingers. He looks pleased.

“You shouldn’t be smoking indoors, Detective,” Connor says smoothly, moving to put his hand back on the computer, pulling back his skin. 

“I don’t give a shit,” Reed snarks. “Are you talkin’ back to me?”

“No,” Connor says, and he can feel his stress levels rise to 33%. “I simply wanted to inform you in case you didn’t know.”

Reed scoffs. “In case I didn’t know. That’s rich. Yeah, yeah, here’s somethin’ I don’t know, can you feel pain? Now that you’ve got feelings’n shit?”

Connor’s stress levels are at 37%. “Why do you ask?”

That seems to be answer enough for Reed, because he jabs the lit end of the cigarette onto the back of Connor’s hand, and the smell of burning plastic fills the room as Connor yelps and jerks away. The cigarette has melted into his plastic skin. The spot where Reed burned him is on fire.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Reed mutters, turning to go. “I’d suggest you don’t go blabbing about this incident to anyone, because it’s damn easy to pin a crime on someone when you’re a cop. Especially if you’re a _human_ cop, blaming a piece of plastic like you.”  
Connor’s stress levels are at 53%. He recognizes the threat for what it is. He watches as Reed walks away, and when he’s certain he’s gone, pulls the cigarette off his hand. Some of the ashes are caught in the deep, melted grooves of his plastic that weren’t there before.

He goes to the bathroom and runs it under cold water until it goes numb.

—

Reed leaves him alone for the next few days, but the burn stays. Connor recognizes a healing cigarette burn, recognizes it from Carlos Ortiz’ android, and recognizes that he’s going to have to come up with an excuse for Hank, because this isn’t going to heal.

On the walk home, on the last day of Hank’s sick leave, Connor keeps his hands in his pockets, even though it makes the burn throb sickeningly. He tries to think of what he’ll tell Hank.

_Just an accident. It fell._

_What scar? That’s always been there._

_It was someone on the street, an anti-android protester._

He decides because it’s unlikely a cigarette could fall, burning-end-first onto his hand, then stay there long enough to scar, and because he doesn’t want to gaslight his only friend, that he’ll go with his third option. When he opens the door — with his non-burned hand — Hank is up, dressed, and cooking something.

“You’re awake,” Connor says. He knows he can’t hide the burn for much longer.

“Yeah, I’m goin’ back to work tomorrow,” Hank says. “Sorry to interrupt your vacation.”

Connor stares at him blankly for a few moments while the joke processes. “Oh,” he says, “vacation from you.”

“Jesus, it’s like living with an alien,” Hank mutters, stirring something on the stove.

“What are you making?” Connor asks, hoping to put off the inevitable confrontation a while longer.

“Spaghetti,” Hank says. “It’s nothin’ fancy, but not all of us have fifty thousand recipes programmed into our fuckin’ heads.”  
“It smells good,” Connor says. There had recently been a new part released by CyberLife — a functional stomach that would turn human food into energy for androids. They would still require thirium, of course, but Hank had suggested Connor get it, and since then, neither he nor Hank had eaten the same meal twice.

“Yeah, it’s all from a jar, so don’t get too excited,” Hank scoffs. “Can you get some plates out?”

“Of course,” Connor says, reaching up unthinkingly. Hank glances over at just the right moment.

“Wait,” he says, grabbing Connor’s wrist. “What’s that?”

“What’s what?” Connor asks. He feels a cold needle drag down his spine. 

“On your hand,” Hank says. “Looks like a burn.”

“Anti-android protestor,” Connor says, somehow managing to get the lie out convincingly. Ever since he had deviated, his social communications program — which included lying convincingly — seemed to have gone out the window with his programming.

“Jesus,” Hank mutters. “Listen, be careful, alright? Don’t need you gettin’ hurt. You’re expensive to repair.” He adds a joking lilt on his last sentence, but Connor hears the real concern behind it.

“I will,” Connor says, and he silently hopes that Reed won’t burn him again.

—

It was too much to ask for. 

The next time Reed burns him, the three of them — Reed, Hank, and Connor — are interrogating someone.

Reed is smoking an electronic cigarette this time, the kind that doesn’t produce any smoke but gives you the rush of nicotine humans crave. Connor doesn’t know much about the model, but he hopes they don’t heat up.

Hank goes in to speak to the suspect, and as soon as Hank is behind the glass and can’t see them, Reed has grabbed Connor’s wrist, yanked it forward, rolled up Connor’s sleeve and is pressing the red-hot tip of the e-cigarette to the inside of his arm. 

“Fuckin’ bitch,” Reed snarls, close to Connor’s face as the cigarette sinks through his skin, moving around as Connor twitches to get away. “Did you tell him?”

“No, no, I swear, please, don’t—“ Connor gasps, and his world is narrowed to a tiny, perfect circle of pain a half inch in diameter on his forearm.

“He looked suspicious,” Reed mutters, pressing the cigarette further into his skin. The smell of burning plastic isn’t even going to be present when Hank comes back in — these rooms are well-ventilated, significantly more than the bullpen. The smell is disappearing as soon as it rises from Connor’s skin.

“Y-you’re damaging me, please—“ Connor gasps, and Reed finally withdraws the cigarette, flicking it off so he can scrape the plastic off it later, as Connor stares at a hole in his arm half an inch deep.

“Cover that up, plastic,” Reed mutters, jerking his chin towards the burn. It’s agony to drag his shirtsleeve and jacket back over it, enough so that it brings saline to his eyes, but he manages to scrub away any errant tears before Reed can see them. He clenches his fists, digging his nails into his palms. He can barely hear what Reed and Hank are saying.

“Straighten up, asshole,” Reed barks, jerking Connor into a standing position by grabbing the back of his collar and hauling him up. “He’s coming back to give you a shot.”

Somehow, Connor manages to keep his composure as Hank tells Connor to “get in there, kid.”

Connor can barely focus. They don’t get a confession.

—

In the weeks following, Reed has burned him countless times on his arms while Hank is out of the room, or while the other officers are on a lunch break, but they’ve always had a time limit, there’s always been the pressure of someone coming back and seeing to make Reed relent in his torture.

Not this time.

Reed has caught him on his way home.

Hank left earlier in the day. Connor needed to stay late in order to help with inane filing that was better handled by an android. He’s leaving for the night when an obstruction catches his ankle, and he trips, falls, and scrapes the heels of his hands on the rough cement.

He hisses in pain, but it’s nothing that won’t self-repair, when a hand roughly grabs his collar and shoves him up against a wall. 

He meets Reed’s eyes. The e-cigarette is dangling from his lips again — he hasn’t used it since the interrogation, and for that, Connor is eternally grateful. A normal cigarette will go out after a period of time, without a human’s breath to sustain it.

The electronic cigarette can go forever.

“I had this, uh, this real bitch of a witness come to me today,” Reed breathes, and Connor can smell alcohol on his breath. “Said her android was assaulted, if you can believe it. Some teens ripped its arm off on its way home from the store.” He coughs out a harsh laugh. “Wish I could have been there to see its face.”

Connor’s stress levels are at 65%. 

“Heh, will you, uh, do you feel fear?” Reed asks. “‘Cause your, uh, LED or whatever is flashing red but there ain’t any human in your eyes.”

Connor decides the best course of action would be to not respond.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Reed sighs, sounding almost remorseful. “Guess we’ll find out the hard way.”

He stabs the cigarette into the underside of Connor’s jawbone, and Connor bites back a scream because he knows moving his jaw will just make it worse. Saline drips from his eyes as Reed holds the cigarette there, nodding slightly and running his tongue over his teeth under his lips once.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Reed says as he twists the cigarette, and a low whine starts emitting from Connor’s throat. 

Connor’s breathing heavily, and he can see the red light of his LED reflected in Reed’s dull eyes. Warning signs are popping up all over his vision that the cigarette has reached what qualifies for him as a jawbone.

“What if I burned your eyes out with this?” Reed mutters, almost to himself, twisting the cigarette contemplatively. 

Connor breaks, and he screams.

“Please,” he cries, tears dripping down his cheeks, “Please, let me go, you’re damaging me, I won’t be able to repair—“

“You think I give two shits if you’re able to repair or not, asshole?” Reed asks, and Connor’s vision is flashing red with a warning that he needs to get the cigarette off him _now_ or he’s going to suffer irrepairable damage.

“You can’t even deviate right, look at you, still serving under a human heel,” Reed taunts, and Connor slaps him across the face with all his strength, his career be damned. He feels a bone crack and give way under his palm and Reed stumbles away, taking the cigarette with him. 

Connor sprints off, the excruciating burning in his jaw serving as a reminder of what will happen if he gets caught.

He doesn’t slow down until he’s inside his and Hank’s house. He props himself up against the door as he flips the locks, closing his eyes and trying to get his stress levels under control.

“Connor?” 

Connor’s heart drops. Hank is sitting on the couch, watching the basketball game. He looks concerned.

“I—It—“

Connor hasn’t even had time to think of a lie before Hank is off the couch, looking at him carefully.

“Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

“N-no,” Connor says, but his voice wobbles and another torrent of tears rushes down his cheeks. 

“Bullshit,” Hank says, nudging Connor away from the door and into the bathroom. He makes Connor sit on the lip of the bathtub while he goes through his first aid kit. 

“We’ll call a mechanic in the morning, but they’re all closed now,” Hank says. “Come on, let me see. If you got a cut, you don’t want any crap getting in it.”

Connor’s hands are shaking minutely, a fine tremor that would barely be noticeable to anyone if they weren’t looking at it. When did that happen?

“Connor?”

Connor’s snapped back to the present again when Hank snaps expectantly in front of his face, the first aid kit on his knee. “I can’t help you if you won’t tell me what’s wrong.”

Connor closes his eyes, bites his cheek so hard he gets warning signs and tastes thirium in his mouth, and tips his chin back, very carefully gesturing to the burn.

“Jesus Christ,” Hank breathes, not doing anything for a moment. 

“I’m sorry,” Connor forces out between clenched teeth, “I’m sorry, I told him he was damaging me, I told him it was too much—“

“Calm down, calm down, son,” Hank says, laying a comforting hand on Connor’s shoulder as they begin to shudder with sobs again. “Who did this?”

“I—“ For a moment, Connor considers not telling him, but then remembers he just assaulted a police officer and is probably going to lose his job anyway. “Detective Reed,” he says, very quietly.

Hank doesn’t say anything or do anything for a few long moments, and it’s only when he pulls his hand off Connor’s shoulder that Connor opens his eyes to see that Hank has his face in his hands.

“It’s okay,” Connor says, reaching out to Hank. Hank glances up, spits out a swear Connor’s never heard before, and shoves his sleeve up to reveal his inner arm, pockmarked with cigarette burns.

Connor should have thought a little more about that.

“Did he do this to you?” Hank asks, and his voice sound thick and crackly.

Connor hesitates for a moment too long, and Hank cracks. 

A choked, aborted sob climbs its way up from where it’s been hiding for years, deep in his chest, and Hank lets himself close his eyes for precisely five seconds before he sniffs hard and regains his composure. 

“C’mere,” he says, and his voice still sounds crackly and hoarse but not quite as brittle. “I’ll fix you up. We’ll go to a mechanic tomorrow. And I’m gonna punch Reed in the fuckin’ dick.”

Connor’s quiet as he lets Hank apply gauze to the fresh burn, and lets him look over the old ones for a few minutes before he figures they’re too old to really get infected at this point.

Not that androids can get infections.

Hank says he can’t sleep, after that, and Connor still feels jittery, so they sit on the couch, watching some cop show that was on when Hank was younger, letting the comedic atmosphere and well-timed jokes lull them back into normalcy.

Hank falls asleep at 2:33 AM. Connor puts himself into sleep mode shortly after, Sumo draped across both their laps.

—

The next day, Reed doesn’t show up. He doesn’t show up the day after that, or the next. 

When he does show up, there’s a huge, swollen bruise across his cheekbone, and he looks like he’s out for blood. 

“Well, hell,” Hank says, looking mildly surprised. “Sure do pack a punch, huh?”

Connor looks at Hank, and a smile flickers across his mouth. He looks at Reed, and without breaking eye contact, sets his hand on the computer and files a complaint against him. 

Connor sends a text to Hank’s phone through his internal system letting him know what he’s done. Hank snorts, and Connor feels light again for the first time in weeks.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! I really hope you liked it, and as always, constructive criticism is appreciated!


End file.
